Chapter 44
That night, Sasha finishes packing in the Hartmans’ guest room, replaying the argument on the beach and regretting almost everything he’d said.
As angry as he was with Danny—and still is—for not taking their safety seriously enough, he knows he should have handled it better.
All he’d wanted was for Danny to understand the danger they were in, but instead he’d wound up yelling about Danny’s gymnastics, about Rio.
Yet as much as he wishes he could take those words back, that’s not what’s keeping him on edge as he closes his suitcase, zips up his backpack, and puts his phone on the nightstand to charge. It’s that he’s running out of excuses to keep waiting, and Danny still hasn’t stopped by to say goodnight.
Not that Sasha’s expecting him to. Obviously.
Despite the fact that he’s nudged the door open like an invitation, kept the main light on, caught himself listening for footsteps on the carpet.
Because Danny’s always come before, no matter what, even after they’d fought about Emily and Sasha was furious with him.
But this time, Danny doesn’t show. The door stays hopefully ajar, the hallway silent; and the longer Sasha putters around his room, making increasingly stupid excuses to delay turning off the light (including refolding his socks not once, but twice), the more wrong it feels, like Danny’s absence tonight means something a lot worse. Something permanent.
He tries to tell himself that it’s okay, that maybe Danny just needs some space and they’ll talk tomorrow—but that doesn’t help, because Danny never needs space, is in fact constantly trying to get rid of it: tugging Sasha closer when they cuddle, reaching for his hand in the car, asking for more texts and calls.
Sasha’s gotten used to it by now, but nothing’s prepared him for Danny pulling away.
Eventually, it occurs to him that maybe Danny’s waiting for Sasha to come to his room, to apologize for what he’d said about Rio.
Which doesn’t really seem like something Danny would do, but Sasha’s running low on straws to grasp, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind he’s marching down the hall, ready to do whatever he needs to set this right.
He makes it halfway to Danny’s room before he realizes that there isn’t any light under the door, that Danny’s already gone to sleep and was never going to say goodnight to him at all.
*
“I don’t know what Danny’s doing,” Diane says again, glancing up from her scrambled eggs. “He’s not going to have time to eat before you boys leave.”
There’s a beat of silence, broken by the rustling of Andy’s paper. “I’m sure he’ll manage.”
“Well, he’s cutting it close…”
Sasha forces himself to swallow another mouthful of buckwheat, trying to look like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he’s happy to sit across from an empty chair, making small talk about his travel itinerary with Andy and Diane.
Like he isn’t terrified that their son might be breaking up with him.
Because his bags are by the door, he’s supposed to leave in fifteen minutes, and Danny still hasn’t shown up in the kitchen.
At this point, Sasha’s not sure if he ever will, or if he’s just planning to stay in his bedroom until Sasha takes the hint and gets an Uber instead.
And then… well. Then nothing. Because that would pretty clearly mean that Danny was done with him.
He’d barely slept last night, wondering if that’s where this was headed.
If he’d fucked up so badly, hurt Danny so deeply, that there was no coming back.
And maybe there isn’t. But lying there, trying to picture his life without Danny, he just—he couldn’t.
Despite the fact that there’s always been an expiration date between them, he’s done his best to ignore it; and he’d never thought their relationship would end like this, without him even knowing if it was over.
And it’s not—it can’t be over. Not like this.
Or did he already lose Danny without even realizing it?
“I’m going to go up and check on him,” Diane decides, setting down her fork. “If he’s still asleep—”
“No!” Sasha says hastily. He can’t bear the thought of Diane finding Danny awake, Danny telling her that he’s not taking Sasha to the airport after all.
If that’s how Danny’s going to break up with him, then Sasha would rather leave right now than have to face it in front of the Hartmans.
“Please. I will get Uber. It is no problem.”
“Oh, no, honey, Danny said he’d take you, I’m sure he’s just—”
“No, it’s okay, I am getting now.” Sasha’s already opening the app on his phone, screen tilted to show Diane what he’s doing.
His breath hitches when he sees how soon a driver can pick him up—he isn’t ready to leave in five minutes, not if this is the last time he’s ever in Danny’s home—but he books the ride anyway, feeling as hollow as a matryoshka doll when he receives the confirmation message.
“Well, if you’re sure…”
To Sasha’s dismay, Diane pushes back her chair and leaves the kitchen, clearly headed upstairs to inform Danny.
Realizing it would only look suspicious if he called after her to stop, Sasha abandons his breakfast and starts cleaning up as quickly as he can.
He’s just gotten everything into the dishwasher when Danny and Buddy skid into the kitchen, Danny looking half dressed and fully pissed off.
“Did you seriously call an Uber?”
Sasha freezes, taken aback by the accusation in Danny’s voice. He’s vividly aware of the phone still lit up in his hand, the app tracking his driver’s progress.
“Cancel it.” Danny looks angrier than Sasha’s ever seen him, his face red, fists clenched tight at his sides. Which doesn’t make sense—if he’s that mad, then why would he want them to be stuck in a car together?
“It’s okay—”
“Sasha, just fucking cancel it!”
Sasha does so, closing the app with unsteady hands as Andy asks, “Er—is everything all right?”
Danny doesn’t even glance at his father. “So what, were you just going to leave without saying goodbye?” he shoots at Sasha.
“I thought—” Sasha breaks off, irritation starting to puncture his confusion. It’s the first time Danny’s spoken to him since last night, and he obviously wouldn’t even have come downstairs if his mother hadn’t gotten involved, so what else was Sasha supposed to think? Or do?
“What’s going on?” Diane asks as she walks back into the kitchen.
“Nothing,” Danny says, nowhere near convincingly enough, his cheeks the color of a firetruck. “We’re just leaving.” When Sasha doesn’t move, he snaps, “Well, come on, you’re obviously ready to go.”
“Daniel!”
“It’s okay, I am ready,” Sasha says hastily. Diane looks as if she’s about two seconds away from launching an inquisition, and he needs to be gone before that happens.
“Great.” Danny’s already turning on his heel, like he doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than he has to with Sasha. “I’m gonna go start the car.”
“You didn’t eat anything!” Diane calls after him. “And put a shirt on!”
Danny grabs a banana out of a bowl on the counter and slams the door behind him, leaving Sasha to exchange the world’s most awkward goodbyes with the Hartmans.
Who are both so mortifyingly nice about it—Andy wishing him well, Diane hugging him and apologizing for Danny’s behavior—that Sasha feels even worse, accepting their kindness after all the things he said to their son.
Danny’s waiting for him outside, a silhouette in the driver’s seat, the open trunk a wordless instruction.
Sasha stows his suitcase and gets in the car, wanting to climb out again as soon as the door closes behind him.
He risks a glance at Danny, who’s scrounged up an old Team USA shirt and a pair of sunglasses that prevents Sasha from reading his expression, but all Danny does is back out of the driveway.
As soon as they’re on the road, Sasha braces himself for a fight—which would still be better than this silence—or whatever it was that Danny had wanted to say so badly, he’d made Sasha cancel his ride for it.
But Danny just pushes his sunglasses up closer to his eyes, starts a playlist on his phone, and drives them out of Newport Beach without so much as a single word.
What the fuck?
With every passing kilometer, Sasha gets more and more annoyed.
Danny was the one who’d insisted on driving him to the airport; he’d practically dragged Sasha into the car, for Christ’s sake.
He should talk first. Besides, they’re at least an hour away from the airport, and there’s no chance Danny’s going to last that long without saying something.
Sooner or later—odds on sooner—he’ll cave, and then this stupid stalemate will be over.
Sasha can wait.
And wait.
The kilometers crawl by, the silence prickling down Sasha’s spine.
He’s so fucking on edge, so thrown off by Danny’s entire personality change, as jarring as if he’d come home and found another woman at the stove instead of his mother.
Because seriously, what the fuck? Danny doesn’t do quiet.
Danny talks, and Sasha listens; that’s how this works.
But now Danny’s broken the rules, or maybe it’s that Sasha’s broken him, and nothing’s right anymore.
It feels like torture, being stuck in this car without Danny’s voice babbling over the music, without anything to distract him from his growing terror that this is it—that if Danny doesn’t speak before the car ride ends, their relationship is over.
Just say something, he starts arguing with himself as the Los Angeles skyline creeps over the horizon. Just fucking apologize already, you owe him that!
But then, like whiplash as they pass a sign for the airport: No, he should apologize.
Because Danny had outed him, then had the audacity to look upset when Sasha said he couldn’t come to Moscow.
He’s the one who keeps putting them in danger, and if Sasha had to hurt him to get that point across, then it’s his fucking fault.
Except Sasha can’t really pretend, even to himself, that Danny deserved any of what Sasha had said to him.
Apologize!
Don’t apologize!
The warring urges box in his brain, round after round until Danny pulls into the drop-off lane at LAX—and as soon as the car comes to a stop, Sasha realizes he’s been a fucking idiot.
Of course he should have said something, of course he should have apologized, of course he should have swallowed his pride over an hour ago and begged Danny to forgive him. What the fuck was he thinking?
“Danny—”
But Danny’s already getting out of the car. Sasha swears at himself, then hears the trunk open and scrambles out after Danny, catching up to him as he sets Sasha’s suitcase down on the pavement.
“Can we—”
Danny rolls over Sasha’s suitcase, letting go of the handle before their fingers touch. “Right,” he says, finally, the first word he’s spoken the entire drive. “I guess this is it.”
And if that’s not a We’re done, Sasha doesn’t know what is.
His throat tightens around a now-useless apology.
I’m sorry won’t change the way Danny’s looking at him, through him, like he just wants to get back in the car and drive as far from Sasha as possible.
And why wouldn’t he? Sasha had yelled at him.
Sasha had said Danny when Danny said I love you.
There’s nothing left here for Danny, just an asshole guest who overstayed their welcome.
So they’re breaking up, then.
The ground is spinning under Sasha’s feet, like he hit the trampoline at the wrong angle and now he’s lost in the air, only knowing for sure that he’s about to crash.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this, he thinks, wasn’t supposed to end until they retired, until he had enough time to prepare.
This feels like slamming onto a concrete floor without any mats ready to catch him, splitting himself open on a surface that doesn’t forgive.
“Well… bye, Sasha,” Danny says.
And then he holds out his hand.
His fucking hand.
Sasha goes from shocked to shamed to furious in about three seconds flat, whiplash ringing in his ears.
Danny won’t even hug him now? Because—because what, Sasha said he couldn’t take a summer vacation to Moscow?
And told him the truth (harsher than it needed to be, but still) about his gymnastics?
So first the silent treatment, now a handshake, and Sasha’s supposed to act like they’re just acquaintances?
Well, fuck that. Fuck him. Sasha’s not going to shake his hand, not for one fucking second.
He stares at Danny, holding his ground until a voice in his head whispers, You’ll never get to touch him again, and that’s all it takes for him to crumble like a block of chalk.
He reaches out, suddenly desperate to hold onto any part of Danny that he can—but he’s waited too long, and Danny’s already lowering his arm.
Danny quickly holds out his hand again, just as Sasha yanks his back in mortification. There’s a breath of a moment where, maybe, he could have tried a second time; but he’s too embarrassed, and then the moment passes. He’s lost his chance.
He forces himself to look, one last time, at the man he dared to kiss in a stairwell and hasn’t stopped thinking about ever since. The man whose voice makes him feel like he’s home. The man who was inside of him less than forty-eight hours ago and now won’t even hug him.
Danny’s eyes lock on his, and Sasha knows right then that he’s going to lose it if he stays here a second longer. He doesn’t think, just tightens his grip on his suitcase and turns around, walking away as his vision tilts and blurs like a kaleidoscope.
Realizing, a heartbeat later, that he never said goodbye.
“Sasha—”
Danny sounds so small, and Sasha hesitates, a voice in his head screaming that it’s not too late. That he can fix this. That he only has to say he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry; and then Danny will hug him again, and they’ll figure it out, and everything will be okay.
But when he blinks, his cheeks are wet and he panics again, his self-preservation instincts kicking in and slamming all the other doors closed. The thought of Danny seeing his face—seeing him cry—he can’t do it. He can’t.
So he keeps walking, knowing with every step that he’s making one of the biggest mistakes of his life.